


asphodel

by oneoff



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Songfic, Supernatural Elements, Young Love, omc is just there as an audience stand-in lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoff/pseuds/oneoff
Summary: In a world just removed from his, there's a tale (a lost memory, really) of lovers; the wind is happy to collect.---dance site of darkness; originally written in 2016





	asphodel

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to try to fix this but realized that would require restructuring things and i am too lazy for that .
> 
> reviewed by nerumih like a million (two and some) years ago (still feeling blessed and :OOO about that ;;)

 

He stands alone in the windy day, internally complaining of the unrelenting chill—though, of course, it’s to be expected of the late fall weather. He wraps the plaid scarf around him tighter. He can handle the wind, he tells himself—the result will be worth it. With that thought, a satisfied smile playing on his lips, he walks faster and more deliberately toward the spiritualist’s shop, oh-so-conveniently set up at the edge of town, for which he’s glad, for once.

He’d been sitting in the attic about two or three months ago, back when he actually had  _ time _ for silly things like sitting in attics, one of the luxuries that comes with the blissful nothingness of summer, picking up various knick-knacks he’d found, dusting them off and inspecting them before carelessly tossing them back in the general direction of where he’d found them. He had stretched lazily and stood up, strolling over to a corner he hadn’t searched through yet, when a long, black silk ribbon suddenly caught his eye, still glossy and sleek as if it was brand new, despite being surrounded by numerous dust-accumulating items. He bent over to pick it up, and as soon as the velvety fabric touched his hand, a shiver snaked down his back. He turned it over in his hand, swiftly entranced by the seemingly ordinary ribbon and ignoring the tinny echo of his mother's voice calling him.

It’s a normal ribbon, by all standards, with forked edges and a feel that somehow reminds him of the distinct, slightly salty scent of the sea. It’s a bit longer than the length of the circumference of his head and about the width of the distance from his lower lip to his chin, all tied up in an elegant bow.

And then… He doesn’t even know what had happened. It reminds him of a flashback, preposterously enough, transported to a past memory...

Except, of course, that the memory hadn’t been his.

 

i.

_ He is a boy with shoulder-length, flaxen hair and is wearing one of his—no, this boy’s simpler Victorian suits, though still especially tailored for him, and a pork pie hat. He is smiling gently at a girl with hair like his, though hers is more of an ash blonde color and floats around her head like a halo, which is fitting considering what he thinks of her. He holds a black ribbon in his hands and tenderly weaves it through the girl’s hair, arranging it prettily in the bow fashion that is so popular nowadays. _

_ “There,” he says softly. “Now you look even more…” _

_ “Funereal?” she giggles, half-mocking him. “There’s no need for my attire to be so dismal, Len. Lighten up!” _

_ He stiffens. “Yes, well, this is a rather sordid event. It’s not everyday you…” _

His—well, the boy in the memory's—voice trailed off; the memory faded away as quickly as it had arrived, and he suddenly found himself back in his old attic.

He had stared at the ribbon, a newfound respect in him, and he knew it would most likely do him good to just throw it down again like the countless others. But as if against his own will, his hand had reached behind him and wedged the ribbon gingerly in his pant pocket.

And so here he is, making his way to a shady booth on the outskirts of town in search of a backstory to the black ribbon.

He’s reached the spiritualist’s joint and takes a deep breath, looking up at the somewhat dingy sign that dangles precariously on a single cord and reads “Spiritualist of Light.” Slightly tacky, he judges, and begins to doubt himself not for the first time about coming here. In fact, what would his parents say? He is a significantly respectable boy, or so he and his parents tell him.

But this is the only place that comes to his mind where he’ll have at least some chance of uncovering this mystery, and he’s a curious teenager, so it’s here he goes. So before he can change his mind and leave (like a sensible person would do, he can’t help thinking), he swallows, quickly steps up, and knocks on the door.

The man who opens the aforementioned door looks like a normal person. Or, well, not like the complete… well,  _ crackpot _ he thought the “acclaimed spiritualist” would be. He’s wearing a trim suit, a flamboyant ruffle poking out of the collar, and dress pants with thin grey stripes running up the legs. However, the man’s self-label of an “acclaimed spiritualist” happens to be a considerably large exaggeration, he thinks amusedly as he attempts to inconspicuously peer around the medium. The sight that meets him is a fairly shabby shack, mostly dominated by the circular, double scroll-legged table in the center of the room, but littered with strange objects—a small, antique desk clock, a crystal ball, and… is that an eye he sees painted on a wall?

The spiritualist blinks and stares at him through half-framed eyeglasses, complete with a thin, gold (probably faux) chain hanging down one side, then says carefully, “How can I help you?”

He invites himself in and sits down at the table, though he can tell from the man’s expression that he’d rather he not, but if he’s paying for the services, he might as well make himself comfortable. Once the man has himself seated at the other end, he pulls the ribbon out again, lays it on the table, and looks up at the spiritualist expectantly.

The spiritualist meets his gaze with a rather steely one and raises an eyebrow before he reaches across and delicately plucks the silk off the table. He adjusts his glasses and brings the ribbon up to an eye. Leaning back leisurely, the diviner looks up at him.

“What did you expect? It’s a black, silk ribbon, as I’m sure a boy of your… ah, stature must have figured out. The brand is right there, on the edge, if you squint a little. Go to them, if you wish.”

He blinks. “So you’re admitting that you’re a fraud?”

“Foolish boy! I never said anything of the sort. If I may add, you haven’t even told me what you’re looking for, beyond what I can ordinarily guess of the usual tomfoolery of searching for knowledge a long-lost relative or ancestor,” the man scoffs, looking miffed and rather like a stuffy cat, which almost makes him laugh.

He tugs the ribbon out of the man’s loosened grip and examines it. The man is right; the company’s name is written on one of the forked edges in almost miniscule secretary hand. But anybody could’ve seen that with a bit of inspection—in fact, he’s somewhat astonished that he hadn’t already seen it. But that’s still not what he’s looking for.

“Well, I mean, it kind of starts back in the summer when I first found this. When I picked it up it… Huh… What’s this?” He's still turning the ribbon over in his hand when he sees an incision in the ribbon. A corner of a black tag is protruding from the cut. It’s also made of silk, with an inscription written in creamy white on it. When the man starts to look irritated again, he hurriedly shakes his head and spouts out a “Thanks a lot for your help!” before leaping out of his chair, producing a raucous scrape. The man, now wearing a laughable expression of shock and irritation, doesn't get a chance to respond as he races out the door.

He’s on his way to another shop, but since he travelled all the way out to the periphery of the quite sizable town, it’ll be a while before he arrives at his next destination, so he takes the time to read the lettering again.

The message is a bittersweet one that sends a pang through his heart, even though he’s never been the particularly romantic type—or maybe it’s just the strangely mystic ribbon that’s talking to him.

 

ii.

_ He shakes as he writes the words on the paper he’s going to have to send eventually to be labelled on silk. He wants to get her something special for the… well, he can’t say extraordinary, but significant day coming up. The last ribbon he gave her—that old yet still fine black one his mother was so fond of—she’d refused to take, even though he insisted that it was a gift from him to her. It hurt him a little, if he’s to be honest, but this time she’ll have to take it; when she leaves, he wants it to be as smooth as possible, as good as it can be. _

_ (As good as he can make it.) _

_ She’s always been sweet to him, and now (at the last, worst possible moment, he frets) he is going to return the favor. Even though he’s worked like never before to prevent her departure, even though he’s flipped through dozens of books and guides of sorcery and superstition and whatnot, a guilty feeling still gnaws at him that he hasn’t done enough, that he hasn’t given as much to her as she has to him. He doesn’t mean materialistically—he’s always showered her with plenty of gifts. She learned long ago not to protest. Every time he says that it’s the least he can do for her, and every time she blushes charmingly and flits her eyes down, making her eyelashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings. _

_ He tries to tell her how much she means to him, how much she’s affected and helped him, but he doesn’t think she fully gets it. So maybe in this note he’ll be able to convey to her truly how from the start she was like a beacon of hope, of light. He’s incredibly cliché, he knows, and it’s a long shot that he’ll be able to achieve what he wants. But that’s okay. He’ll be with her every step of that fateful day. _

_ He puts down the paper and reviews it again. His lips move as he reads the words, a habit she once told him was cute. _

My beloved Rin,

How cruel of Fate it is to part us like this, but despite our best attempts, it seems inevitable. I’d like to inform you one last time how much you mean to me. You’re the sun after my storm, you’re the lighthouse to my disoriented ship, and you’re the only one I’ll ever love. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to live on, stand alone without you, but you’ve been amazing.

Always yours, Len

_ He sighs and decides he hates it. (She always told him he was too hard on himself.) It’s not lilting poetry and he supposes he’s never been the best of writers, but it’ll have to do. Besides, she’s always been good at reading between the lines. _

_ A knock on the door resonates through the otherwise silent house. He hastily folds the paper in quarters and… _

 

He raises his head from his lap. He’s sitting against a wall in one of the nicer alleys, which he’s thankful for; God knows what kind of riff-raff hangs in the rougher alleys, but he has no idea how he got there.

He stands up and instinctively reaches for the ribbon, which he’s tucked in his inner coat pocket. Over the months he’d decided it was deserving of a significantly more proper place than his pant pocket. The feel of the silk is comforting against his fingers, and he looks up and realizes that he’s a mere block away from his destination. He begins to walk purposefully to the store, mind practically teeming with questions.

He is… a bit disappointed; he'd definitely wager that the place has seen better days.  He pushes open the door with a tinkle of the bell hovering over the door and almost doesn’t notice the rather grimy old man sitting behind the desk among the shelf of knickknacks behind him, polishing some sort of novelty with a frayed maroon rag. The whole of the shop seems bathed in a sepia hue.

The man glances up and grunts, “You’re lucky I’m still open.” A pause, and then, “So what is it you’ll be wanting?”

“Er… If you’re thinking something material,” he says politely but cautiously, and the man’s eyes light up, “I’m sorry to say that’s not it.” The man reverts to his sulking position. He senses an air that suggests that the man may not be willing to help him, so he quickly changes tactic and says, “Well—I do need help from you, and I—I can endorse you.”

The man raises an eyebrow, but says in a gravelly voice, “Let’s see it then.”

He shuffles forward and places the ribbon tentatively on the countertop. The man picks it up and eyes it. He allows the man a minute before coughing quietly in his fist.

“This is an old one. I wasn’t aware it was still, erm… in circulation.”

“It’s not.”

The man raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look up. “And what help will you be needing?”

“Do you have anything on the young man who commissioned this?” The man stares at him. He bites his lip before prompting, “Er, blond hair, about my age when he bought it, I think?”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” the man says slowly. “Relative? Nah, he hasn’t really got any o’ your features… Parental figure? Friend o’ yours? Bit old, I’d think,” he adds with a snort. The man says something else under his breath, but he doesn’t catch it.

“Ha ha,” he responds dully, but doesn’t answer the question. Then he catches on to what the shopkeeper is implying and says quickly, “So you  _ do _ know him?”

The man looks startled for a second, then scowls. “Of course I know him. My customer, wasn’t he? And what with the rumours surrounding him…”

“Rumours?” he asks, his heartbeat speeding up.

“Nosy little whippersnapper,” the man mutters, sending him a dark look. Then he tilts his head and shrugs. “Wouldn’t do us any harm to tell you, though, would it?

“Disappeared without a trace, didn’t he, with that other girl? And he was a respectable boy, too. See, we were a bit cleaner back then, and he came to me wanting a ribbon inscribed…”—he can detect a tinge of pride in the man’s voice here— “I said to him, ‘Bit long, isn’t it?’ But of course he didn’t budge, and I wondered who it was to. But we got those answers soon enough.

“You can see it. Up on that hill a block away from Webb’s. The girl’s father said it was a favourite place of hers,” the shopkeeper says thoughtfully, theatrically looking off into the distance. The man seems to be rather enjoying himself, now that he’s got a rapt audience.

He asks for clarification again, then throws a banknote at the startled man after he gets his answer with a harried “Thanks so much!” and runs out the shop with an increasing sense of déjà vu.

He strides purposefully along the road to his destination and has to stop a distance away to comprehend that this hill, the one he’s overlooked so many times, is going to give him answers.

 

iii.

_ His hand rests on her shaking shoulder as she sobs into her hands. She sits at the mahogany table in her room, and he counts himself lucky that she allows him. He wants to go get her a handkerchief or something, but he elects to stay with her. (He’s half afraid of what will happen if he leaves her alone.) She may as well be made of glass right now, ready to shatter at any moment. He doesn’t want to think too highly of himself, but right now  he might as well be the glue holding her together. _

_ “I didn’t mean to!” she wails. He doesn’t want to hear a noise like that escape her mouth ever again. “It’s not my fault, I can’t, I didn’t mean to,  _ I didn’t mean to! _ ” _

_ He hates it.  _ Please stop _ , he wants to beg. He’s never been good at these emotional things. _

_ “It’s alright, Rin. We can—can reverse it, we’ll—I’ll do everything I can to help you, you don’t have to go through it alone, I’m with you,” he consoles, even though he’s not even sure the things he says are true. To be honest, he’s just rambling. She didn’t even tell him what exactly it was that she did, and he’s not sure he’ll ever know. _

_ He’s not sure he wants to know. _

_ But now’s not the time to doubt her. Her sobs are subsiding somewhat, though her shoulders still tremble and she refuses to look at him. _

_ “I’ll go get you a handkerchief and a glass of water.” _

_ “No!” she hisses hysterically. He immediately freezes. Her voice calms a bit, and she mumbles, “Please… stay with me.” _

_ “I’m with you,” he repeats. His voice rings through the room, and it’s silent for a while other than her sniffles. _

_ “Really,” she presses on after a few minutes. “It wasn’t me.” _

_ “Of course it wasn’t. I believe you,” he soothes. Her head snaps up and she narrows her bloodshot eyes at him. _

_ “No, you don’t,” she says suddenly. “But it wasn’t. It… I was tricked.” _

_ “I… I’m not… Why would you think that?” he stammers. She lays her head down again, and he takes the initiative to persist. “When have I ever doubted you? I’ve always trusted you, Rin. And I was with you, before you went.” _

_ He can hear her mumbling something but she hasn’t raised her head yet, so it isn’t clear what she’s saying. He catches the words “being silly” and “sorry.” And then— _

_ “Thank you.” _

_ He doesn’t say anything, just pats her shoulder, but a sense of foreboding lingers in the air. A sudden gust of wind blows the flickering candle out. _

 

He opens his eyes. He’s sitting at the foot of the hill, limbs arranged like a doll's. He takes a shaky breath, then admonishes himself. He should probably get used to the montage of memories now that he’s nearing the destination.

He finally arrives and is immediately drawn to the headstone in the ground, made of… is that blue lace agate? He’s rather impressed; his mother has a necklace in that stone. She says that the stone calms her nerves and brings peace, while “promoting the acceptance of her emotions.” Yeah, right. Though… that may have been what the boy and girl were thinking.

Leaning over, he realizes that there are words carved in.

_ Len and Corinne _

_ Dance on… _

There is a date below this, but it’s scratched out, whether by wildlife or other means he knows not. He wonders vaguely what the epitaph means, but he decides it’s probably something profound and meaningful that he wouldn’t understand.

He shakes his head and reaches out his hand to brush the smooth agate, and once again…

 

iv.

_ His heart has been beating faster as each hour passes, and now that it’s actually time, he fears he may suffer a heart attack. He’s already dressed—has been for a while now—and tugs at his ruffled lapel. _

_ He suddenly feels like a young schoolboy playing pretend, but what schoolboy would pretend that someone he’s close to is about to— _

_ A cacophonic laugh, deranged almost, strikes through the air like a gunshot, and he belatedly realizes that the barking sound is coming out of  his mouth. _

_ He winces and prays that everyone in the house has stayed asleep. He turns off the oil lamp and drifts down the hallways, down the stairs, out the back door like a ghost. He’s practiced the route countless times just to make sure there’s no creak of the floorboards, and he’s also had the door oiled under the pretence that it’d been keeping him awake at night. How his parents believed that, he doesn’t know, but he’s glad it worked out. _

_ The cobblestone roads are empty, and a full moon glows eerily above him. He thinks it’s watching him. _

_ Watching them. _

_ He slips into the shadows, which pave a pathway for him to her bedroom window. He taps her window with enough force to alert her to his presence but gently enough not to bring any unwanted attention. He pauses. He counts to five, then whistles a short tune, three notes long. _

_ Her white face peeks out from her curtain, looking phantasmal. She smiles wanly at him, and he offers a hand and lifts a finger to his lips. She rolls her eyes, and it sends a pang through his heart that she still stays so brave, so courageous even when she’s about to— _

_ “Disappearing forever doesn’t mean I’m a princess, you know,” she quips, though her pallor contradicts her flippant attitude. She’s suddenly standing next to him, and he automatically relaxes. _

_ “Of course not,” he says. Her hand slinks into his. He grasps her other and theatrically looks down from her head to her toes. A genuine smile slides onto his face. Her outfit is black and ruffled, like his, and he feels less silly; they’d coordinated. “You always were one.” _

_ She wrinkles her nose at him. A brittle smile flickers on his face. But instead he focuses on her hand, the one that’s holding his now. He can feel her pulse through it, feel her heart trying desperately to keep her alive. _

_ She’s trembling. _

_ He brushes it off; he probably is, too. But it lingers in the back of his head as she tugs at his hand, and they disappear into the depths of night. _

_ The moon dances above them, threatening to draw prying eyes. It leers coldly, enticing them into a macabre waltz. He casts a wary eye and tightens his grip instinctively. She glances over at him just as a crow cries out manically. They both flinch. _

_ They’re almost at their destination. A second bird joins them, then a third, then a fourth, then a whole flock seems spread out in their surroundings. It’s like the… thing that’s come to take her from his loosening grasp, from his soon empty life is sending them foreboding warnings, watching over them with the moon as its medium. _

_ “I expect you know what these birds are?” She leans her head on his shoulder. He can practically feel her teasing smile. She’s just so  _ chivalrous _ , just accepting her fate. He doesn’t think  _ he’d _ be able to face death like she is; he’d probably be fighting against it with all his might. She’s a halcyon butterfly, trapped in the gossamer threads of unlucky circumstance and sin. _

_ “Corvus corax,” he says absentmindedly as they reach the top of the hill. Her mellifluous laugh dispels some of his fears like a light chasing away the darkness. She’s bloody golden, isn’t she? _

_ The worst things always happen to the best people. _

_ She gives him a doleful smile. “They do, don’t they? You having to live without me…” _

_ He balks. Honestly, for all the cliché things he could have done, saying his thoughts aloud? _

_ “Although, I won’t be so arrogant as to assume I’m everything in your life. But I am right in thinking that it will be… a significant blow to you?” _

_ He’s afraid to speak—he’s afraid if he does, he’ll spill out everything. Because she probably  _ is _ everything in his life, and he’s not ashamed. He settles for a hopefully mysterious smile. _

_ “Come on,” he says, taking hold of her hands. “Let’s… dance.” _

_ She looks at him curiously but doesn’t nag. Miraculously, a tune begins, made from dead leaves and raven feathers. Eerie. Quiet. Dripping with an acute sense of imminent danger. _

_ Imminent death. _

_ The tune picks up, and her eyelids flutter. They stop their movements abruptly. _

_ “Everything’s foggy,” she murmurs. His eyes widen and he grasps her hands more firmly, as if to make sure that she’s not vanishing before his eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut. “No. No. Not yet. Please, I haven’t said goodbye.  _ No. _ ” _

_ She opens her eyes, sighs, and smiles sadly at him again. “Death is impatient; it does not wait for the guilty,” she says simply. He can’t help but think about how she even  _ talks _ like a fairy tale. _

_ “You’re not guilty,” he defends, sounding dumb even to himself. _

_ “No,” she says pensively, “I am. It’s just taken me a while to realize it. _

_ “Just promise me, Len. You have a future. Promise me that you can forget about me and never look back.” _

_ And it’s just when she says this that he decides to go with her. How, he has no idea. He supposes he’ll just wing it. But he does have to go with her; why didn’t he realize it earlier? Really, there isn’t any other option. They’ve always been a single entity; how would he be able to stand alone? _

_ “I’ll try,” he says drily. He nods and continues numbly, “They’ll probably put your full name on your gravestone, Rin. You won’t like that.” _

_ “You’ll have to tell them not to do that,” she agrees. He knows he won’t be there to do what she asks, though. _

_ She suddenly flinches away and drops his hands like she’s having a seizure and gasps, “Oh, God. I can see it all. My sins, my memories. I really will pay for my deceit, won’t I? Ha, Len, it’s the embodiment of seeing your life flash before your eyes.” _

_ The wind picks up, and her eyes snap open, suddenly crystal-clear and almost mad. She leans in, her champagne blonde hair whipped in the air and looking ashen in the pale moonlight, and he suddenly thinks she’s about to kiss him. He desperately, desperately wants her to, wills her to, but he’ll let her take the reins, take the lead, one last time until she _ _ — _

_ “I’m sorry, Len. So, so sorry.” _

_ “What?” he blusters, though a crueler him would probably think about how she should’ve said this more than a couple minutes ago. “No—I should be the one that’s sorry. If—If I’d done more research, I could’ve found some way to save you, maybe. It’s—” _

_ “It’s  _ fine _ , Len,” she says, but her voice quavers. “I can’t escape death.” She flashes him a smile and adds, “Besides. I’ll just be—escaping to an eternal dream. That’s—that’s all death is, right?” _

_ His eye twitches and he’s dying to tell her that, no, not really, but he’s interrupted by another bout of gasps from her. She shakily unlaces the ribbon on her head and throws it on the ground. Still short-winded, she breathes, “Something to remember us by.” _

_ As if on cue, the wind crescendoes, and he finds himself wondering idly if a hurricane will arrive before they’re done. _

_ She glances apprehensively at the sky, rife with leaves. _

_ “It’s soon.” _

_ He grabs her hands again if only for something to do. _

_ She gulps. “Now.” _

_ A smile flickers onto his face; he doesn’t know what kind, but he feels that it’s something between warm and mad. He leans closer to her, brushing their foreheads together; his mind is clearer than it’s been the entire night, and he whispers, “Let’s leave our final testament.” _

_ “ _ Our? _ ” she yelps. “Len, no!” _

_ He doesn’t understand her; it’s better for both of them, after all, for him to do this. Besides, it’s not like he’s sorrowful or fearful. Not if he’ll be going with her. _

_ He grips her hands tighter. She’s not dissolving or anything… none of that “becoming one with the air” that the books mentioned at all! He briefly wonders whether anything’s gone wrong and even dares to hope that perhaps she’s been allowed to live, but then realizes that they’re  _ both _ becoming… more transparent? _

_ Soon they’ll be nothing, he knows, but there’s nothing in his mind but clarity. _

_ Something blinds him—really, could Death be more cliché? There’s a final scream, and then— _

 

He sits up like he’s just woken from a nightmare, but it’s so much more than that. He takes a deep breath, unsteadily gets to his feet, and forces himself to walk down the hill, head filled with a song he doesn’t know and memories that aren’t his.

**Author's Note:**

> yes i know some elements do not make logistic sense but ig the me of two years ago just did not give a shit :^(
> 
> anyway thanks for reading this and indulging me :')


End file.
